


Children of War

by Hijja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-07
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja/pseuds/Hijja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. (Neville Longbottom, Deathly Hallows)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lazy Neutrino](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lazy+Neutrino).



> Birthdayfic for Lazy Neutrino. Humble thanks to Lyras for an extremely perceptive beta!

The first time he tried to wake, his body still felt as if immersed in a sea of fire; before he could groan, pain flung him back into unconsciousness.

***

The second time, he registered movement, his stomach cramping at the lack of solid ground beneath him. He didn't have time to throw up, though; his head bumped into something hard, and he passed out again.

***

On the third try, there was still pain hissing in his bones and sluicing through his bloodstream, but the ground was bearing him, firm and cold and comforting.

He cracked an eye open and caught a blurred face looking down from somewhere above him. His thoughts whirled, equally blurry. Was that how he saw things? Did he need glasses? He blinked and felt his eyes water.

A wand tip came towards him, and before he fully recognized what it was he saw, he'd rolled away and curled in on himself, trembling.

"Merlin, Longbottom, get a grip! You're not going to go mad from this."

The voice was rough, and he couldn’t place it but the name rang a bell, and then his brain supplied another – Neville – which settled even more comfortably inside him. Stung by the scorn, he forced his aching eyes to focus. The voice originated from a broad, square face under a shock of dark brown hair; a face with generous eyebrows that would have had potential for elegance had they not been drawn in a perpetual frown.

'Female' registered on second glance only, after he took in the tight pull of robes over rather generous breasts. He coloured a little, then apprehension trickled down his spine at the sight of the green and silver tie. It jolted his sluggish brain into a semblance of functionality and finally produced the name he'd been searching for.

Millicent Bulstrode. Slytherin, in his own year. Hermione had despised her.

He scrambled into a sitting position, sending shocks of pain through every muscle.

"What are you doing?" he demanded through a pained hiss.

"Looking after your stupid Gryffindor arse," she said bluntly. The accompanying grimace left no doubt about how little she thought of him.

Neville shook his head. He was becoming aware that he was obviously still in the dungeons – the green-hued torches and snake-embroidered wall hangings proclaimed as much. But it was a comfortable little room with a huge table, a few leather-padded chairs, and a wide leather couch with green-tasseled pillows that reminded Neville of how much his bones ached.

"Why?" he ground out belatedly around a tongue that felt puffy and dry.

She shrugged. "Malfoy asked me."

Neville felt a tremor run through him; he recalled another wand pointing at his face, strangely wrong and dark and curved; a dispassionate, somewhat distant face with a curl of disgust around the mouth. Eyes as cold and slate grey as the Scottish sea in the rain. Recalled one word, softly and precisely spoken, that had shattered his world into fragments of agony. Again, then again.

His skin went clammy and his heart gave a few irregular thuds. He _could_ not bear more of that. His mind would turn to sludge and ooze away through his fingers, just like…

"Hasn't he done enough?" he croaked.

Bulstrode stared down at him. "You think he enjoyed it?"

"He certainly did a great job." Neville heard bitterness dripping from his voice and didn't bother to hide it. "I didn't sleep through Mo- Crouch's lectures in Fourth Year. You have to _mean_ it. The Carrows would be so proud."

"Of course." Bulstrode seemed perfectly unperturbed. If anything, her perpetual frown eased a little as if she approved of a Gryffindor knowing about the Cruciatus Curse. "He was taught by his aunt to perform in front of the Dark Lord – of course he's good at it." She rummaged through her robe pocket and banged a small phial on the table. "And if you dumb bastards wouldn't provoke the Carrows every step of the way, they wouldn't have made him curse you."

"And let them spout their bile about Muggles and Muggleborns as if they'd already won?"

"They _have_ won," Bulstrode emphasised. "All you lot are doing is to give them an excuse to tear into you. Or make us do it." She paused. "It's not as if all of us get off on torturing people."

"You could refuse," he snapped, stung by the accusation in her voice.

"And get ourselves in trouble for your stupidity? Why? What do we owe you?"

"You-" Neville's protest dissolved into a birdlike caw as his parched throat gave out.

He was acutely aware that this was the first time he'd ever had a conversation with a Slytherin. Not being bullied by Malfoy and cohorts, or passing ingredients in the few potions or herbology classes he'd been paired with Theo Nott, who barely ever opened his mouth anyway. Even their first years would stumble through the castle for hours wearing a superior sneer rather than ask the way of a Gryffindor. He'd always unthinkingly assumed that Slytherins only came in two types – those who snarled insults and threw hexes, and those who pointed and grunted. So far, he'd counted Millicent Bulstrode among the latter.

Bulstrode snorted and summoned a decanter from the other end of the table. It skidded inelegantly across the table top, scraping wood and scattering drops. A silver cup banged after it.

She filled it with what looked like water and pushed it at him. The cup was icy in his hand. He looked down at it doubtfully.

Bulstrode's eyes narrowed. "Oh, no!" she drawled. "You've exposed my sinister plans to poison you because hitting you with another Cruciatus would be way too boring!"

Blushing, Neville lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip. The liquid was as chilly as the metal, and somewhat tepid, but it seemed to be just water. It lubricated his parched throat and washed away a taste of sick he hadn't even been aware of before now. He slumped heavily into one of the chairs, and poured himself another glass almost without spilling.

Bulstrode pushed the phial at him. "Drink this."

Neville prodded it with a wary finger. "What is it?" Catching her exasperated glare, he threw up his arm. "Yes, I know, it's not poison because you're bored!"

If he didn't know better, he'd have thought that almost earned him a smile.

"It's Liquid Languor," she said. "They use it against the after-effects of Cruciatus."

Neville didn't ask who 'they' were. "Did Malfoy give you that too?" he inquired.

"I _brewed_ it," Bulstrode snapped. "The Headmaster ordered it from the NEWT potions class." She cocked her head. "Of course, _you_ wouldn't know about that."

Neville gulped down another sip of water to drown a sharp reply. He'd endured five years of torture in Potions, and even if Slughorn was much more of a teacher than Snape would ever be, it was the one class he'd happily dropped as soon as he was able to.

Bulstrode stared at him with narrowed eyes until he popped the cork off the phial. A sharp citrus aroma assaulted his nose. He'd never heard of the potion she'd named, least of all tasted it. There was a real possibility that it _was_ something nasty and that her friends were just waiting outside the door to jump in and laugh, or throw curses.

He downed the stuff before the thought could take root, and felt citrus explode on his tongue. The liquid went down in an oily, prickly gulp, even though it seemed to transform into vapour at the back of his throat, as if he was breathing sweet lemon. It forced tears to his eyes. He relaxed a little when it didn't burn or make him break out in boils. There was a frosty sort of feeling in his stomach and throat, but it calmed him. Breathing was suddenly easier.

Looking up, he all but fell over his own feet to catch the little jar Bulstrode flung at him before it could hit him in the face. It was made of wood – walnut, by the look of it – sealed with another wide cork and wrapped with bast cords.

"Murtlap oil," said Bulstrode. "Use it tonight, all of it. It'll keep your muscles from seizing up overnight."

Neville blushed. "Thanks."

"Thank Malfoy," she growled. "It's his."

Neville felt a muscle jump in his cheek. "I don't think I want to," he said softly.

"Then you're an idiot. I told him he was wasting his time and resources."

Stung, Neville's fingers tightened on the bast. "W- why'd you do it, then?"

She looked down her nose at him. "He called in a couple of favours, and the risk wasn't too great?"

Inwardly, Neville shook his head. How typically Slytherin, expecting to be paid back for a favour you did your housemates. Though Malfoy was probably the least likely person to be prone to random acts of kindness.

Malfoy.

He resisted the urge to bang the jar down on the table and storm out. Mostly because he wasn't sure his legs would hold up, but also because it would look as if he was mimicking Harry. He took a calming breath.

"I just can't forget an Unforgivable that easily," he said. Not loudly, but firm. "Not that one."

He'd been hit with the Cruciatus before, of course, during Amycus' infamous Dark Arts lessons, but from students who'd done a botched job, on purpose or from lack of experience. Malfoy, on the other hand, had cast it with the expertise of a seasoned Death Eater, not just grazing him until he screamed, but keeping it up until the world dissolved in fire. "Maybe you can't understand that. You Slytherins rarely seem to be on the receiving end."

Bulstrode's face darkened in a way that made Neville take an involuntary step back. He was anything but fragile, but still suspected she could break his arms without too much effort.

"Oh yes, Slytherins only dish it out, I forgot," she snarled. "See, Longbottom, I know all about your saintly parents. Aurors under Crouch? Some of them left in protest when he authorised the use of the Unforgivables on suspects, but not your mum and dad – I guess they weren't bothered."

Neville felt a lump closing off his throat. "They'd never-" he croaked.

"Oh, I'm sure it's not the kind of story _you_ grew up with, but 'us Slytherins' heard all about it – Aurors coming after Death Eater suspects with the Unforgivables, and if they couldn't find them, then after their families and colleagues and old school friends." Her mouth twisted. "That's what my family had to put up with, and so 'us Slytherins' may not be altogether broken up about you getting some of your own back."

Neville clenched his fists. "I know that my parents _never_ tortured anyone for fun, Bulstrode! They fought against You-Know-Who and paid a greater price for it than just about _anyone_ else. I certainly don't think I deserve being Crucio'd for that!"

"I'm not saying you deserve it," Bulstrode said gruffly. Red spots had formed on her plump cheeks.

"You could have fooled me," Neville shot back, still shaking.

Bulstrode crossed her arms in front of her chest with a dogged expression that made her look more than ever like a discontent bulldog.

"Look, Longbottom, I'm not here out of the goodness of my heart." She scowled. "And you _do_ deserve what's happened because you were stupid and brought it on yourself." Unconsciously, she twisted the frizzy end of her thick dark braid around her finger in much the same way Ginny did when she was nervous. "So do yourself a favour and tell that little gang of yours to stop and lie low before you get one of them – or yourself – killed."

"What?" Neville yelped. "They're not my gang!"

"Of course they are." She threw him a look from under half-lidded eyes that had him squirming with unease. "Not quite Potter's flashy heroics there, I agree, but for some reason they follow you anyway. So you've got to make them stop."

Unnerved, Neville ran a hand through his hair. "I can't do that."

Giving up the resistance would mean conceding You-Know-Who's victory when people looked to Hogwarts for hope. Never mind that he wasn't _leading_ Dumbledore's Army – he made suggestions that were occasionally taken, that was all.

"Look, idiot," Bulstrode snapped. "The Carrows are getting impatient, any fool can see that. Hogwarts is a symbol and you make them look out of control in front of Snape and the Dark Lord. That's lethal for a Death Eater, so they're going to stop giving a fuck about who's a pureblood or not and start making examples. Real ones, not fiddling around a bit with the Cruciatus. You might not care if you're the corpse on the floor to rein in your mates, but what if it's not you, Longbottom? Are you up for knowing your antics have killed one of your friends?"

Neville went pale for a moment, thinking of Michael Corner, who'd gone on a mission tonight. Neville had thought that his 'detention' would draw the Carrows' attention, but instead, they'd thrown him to Malfoy and left. What if Michael had run into them?

"And I don't want my housemates forced to be involved in it either," Bulstrode added. "Not even those who think they wouldn't mind."

Something settled, hard and heavy, in Neville's stomach. He swallowed.

"Look, M… Bulstrode," he quickly amended under her incredulous glare. "If you work with us – stand with us – we can win. We can throw them out of Hogwarts, the Carrows and Snape, and really strike a blow against You-Know-Who."

"No." It came out with so much certainty that Neville gasped, even more so because there seemed to be a trace of regret to that calm conviction. "We'd only invite the Dark Lord and the Ministry to take it back by force, and suffer their revenge afterwards."

Neville's mouth opened to protest, but Bulstrode reached out and stopped him; her fist touched his chest, as if to hold off his words from reaching her physically.

"Slytherin will never stand with you. We have too little to gain, and too much to lose."

An angry jolt went through Neville at that. All of them on the light side had as much to lose, not to mention the Muggleborns who were being persecuted by the Ministry and the Death Eaters. They hadn't heard from Dean since the beginning of the school year, and nobody knew whether Luna was even still alive.

" _You_ do?" he sneered.

"Not everybody has a super-gran who can run rings round a pack of Aurors at 80," she shot back. " _Our_ families, Longbottom – they'd suffer just as much as yours if we step out of line. And they won't even see it coming, because they think they're protected by being 'loyal purebloods'."

Neville recalled Malfoy's worn face at the end of last year, before he'd run away after Dumbledore's murder, the way he'd looked through Neville while casting the Cruciatus Curse as if trying not to see him at all.

Bulstrode removed her fist as if only now realising that she was touching him. Colour flooded her face.

Neville nodded. He gathered the jar of ointment to him, a peace offering of sorts, trying not to contemplate the trip upstairs to the Gryffindor tower.

"I won't stop," he repeated, then added against her darkening expression, "but I'll try to be careful. For all of us."

She gave him one sharp, jerky nod, then whirled around and made for the door.

When it had closed behind her, Neville allowed himself to slump in his chair and rest his aching head against the dark hardwood surface of the table.

Well, that had gone… badly. Well, maybe not too bad since he was still in one piece, with no broken bones even. Would Harry have done quite such a lousy job at pleading the case for an alliance against the Death Eaters? Probably, Neville had to admit; Harry was brave and gifted and the best friend one could wish for, but he wasn't a diplomat and disliked Slytherins with as much vehemence as if, like Ginny or Ron, he'd grown up in a Gryffindor family that spanned generations.

So, he, Neville, had probably done the best job possible. It just… hadn't been very good.

He poured himself another cupful of water, drained it, then struggled to his feet. He'd had his warnings – from Malfoy and Bulstrode, in their different ways – and as much as he hated the thought, they seemed sincere enough. Perhaps too much.

He would make it back to the tower, make sure that Michael had got back alright with the kid he'd gone to free; and tomorrow he'd have a chat with Ginny, and then they'd have to sit down their troops and discuss a change of tactics for Dumbledore's Army.

Which might, or might not, have become his after all.

  
_~ finis ~_   



End file.
